


leave your broken windows open (a head full of dreams)

by susiecarter



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Mutual Pining, Precognition, Prophetic Dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 23:43:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15874128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: Tomas dreamed of Marcus in Mexico City, yes—but that isn't the only sort of dream he has.(Or: four times Tomas dreams of the future, plus the time it isn't just a dream anymore.)





	leave your broken windows open (a head full of dreams)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mimm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimm/gifts).



> Your giftbox said you liked hurt/comfort, canon-divergence AUs (which this only sort of is, BUT STILL), touching, pining, and shenanigans involving time, and combining those things with The Exorcist made this story pretty much pop fully-formed from my keyboard. :D I just hope you like this, Mimm!
> 
> Title ganked from Coldplay's [A Head Full of Dreams](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vGZMvV9KBp8), because I just couldn't help it. This is technically pretty much canon-compliant until close to the end, where it AUs one of the last scenes in the S2 finale (that would be the "fix-it of sorts" because COME ON); the dreams are all set post-S2, and constructed solely out of conjecture and wish-fulfillment. :D

 

 

The first time Tomas dreams one of _those_ dreams, he's startled by it.

Startled—frightened. He doesn't know what to think. He's still dealing with the consequences of dreaming of Marcus Keane in Mexico City; dreaming of it and then _finding_ Father Marcus, who's so exactly as Tomas saw him, who's strange and bewildering and backed Tomas into a wall. Who might have the answers Tomas needs to navigate these terrifying waters he's been tossed into—who might be able to help him save the Rance family when no one else can or will.

And this dream feels so much the same that at first Tomas wants to say _no. No, what is this? I don't need this, I found him. Why show me again?_

Because it feels so much the same—so crisp, so relentlessly clear—and because it looks so much the same, too: Marcus, again; in a small cramped room, again; and a bed, a limp figure draped across it, that terrible stink of blood and rot and fear.

Except Marcus is finished, this time. The exorcism is over, and the figure is still breathing. Not like Mexico City at all, Tomas has time to think, and he's glad for it, glad to see that the faith he feels so strongly drawn to place in Marcus isn't misaimed after all.

And then Marcus crosses the room in a handful of strides, reaches with trembling hands for that figure on the bed—gathers it reverently to him, smoothing his fingers along the bloody line of a cheekbone, and it's—

It's Tomas.

Tomas stares into his own face, his own swollen eyes as they blink themselves weakly open, his own cracked lips parting to drag in an unsteady breath.

"Tomas? Tomas—"

"Marcus," Tomas listens to himself say, hardly more than a whisper, and the Marcus in the dream laughs hoarsely, eyes wet, and draws the other Tomas closer still, tucks the other Tomas's head to his chest, heedless of the blood.

"Oh, Tomas—thank God," the Marcus in the dream murmurs, against the other Tomas's hair. "Thank God, thank God. You—no, don't move," this as the other Tomas reaches up weakly to fist one hand in Marcus's shirt, "no, just—just hold still. Wait, I'll—you'll be all right now. Just let me—" and suddenly the Marcus in the dream has burst into motion, laying the other Tomas carefully down against the stained pillow and rushing away, back in a moment with a bowl of water, a ragged washcloth. "Here," Marcus says softly, "here, let me," and with slow gentle swipes he's begun wiping the other Tomas clean, the blood and grime and sweat coming away one stroke at a time. "Oh, God, Tomas, your hands," Marcus murmurs, absent—and Tomas can see why, moving a half-step to get a better look at the wounds the other Tomas must have dug into his own palms, his arms.

"I'm fine," the other Tomas mumbles, reaching up again with one kitten-weak hand and settling it with intense concentration against Marcus's chest.

" _Fine_ , Tomas, you're—"

"I'm fine," the other Tomas repeats. "You came for me."

The other Tomas's eyes are three-quarters shut, puffy and horribly bruised; he might not be able to see the way Marcus squeezes his eyes closed, the way his mouth twists, anywhere near as well as Tomas can.

"Yes," Marcus whispers, and the other Tomas sighs, quiet and contented, even though by the look of him he should—he ought to be in terrible pain. "Yes," Marcus says again, "I came for you, Tomas. Of course I did," and he leans in and presses his mouth to the other Tomas's bloody brow with such impossible tenderness—

Tomas wakes from the dream with blurred vision, tears caught in the corners of his eyes. That—that wasn't like the dream of Mexico City, it couldn't have been; that's nothing that's ever happened to either of them, not a room he recognizes.

But it felt the same. It felt real. It felt like he was there. And if, he dares to think, it isn't something that _has_ happened, but rather something that _will_ —

It's terrifying, to think such a fate is waiting for him. To think he'll be broken like that, his body wrecked, his face almost unrecognizable. That one day he's going to need Father Marcus's skills, that something will crawl inside him and do its utmost to consume him, and come far too close to succeeding.

But: it won't. It won't. He won't be alone. Father Marcus—strange, magnetic, ineffable Father Marcus—will come for him, and save him.

So yes, the dream is startling, frightening. But in a way, Tomas decides, he's grateful for it.

 

 

The second time he dreams one of this new sort of dream, it fills him with guilt at first.

It's all become such a terrible mire. They're lying to the Rances, lying to everyone, and Casey is slipping away from them. Even Marcus seems shaken, Marcus who knows so much more than Tomas, who understands what they're facing so much better. And Tomas can't do this alone. He couldn't have even if he hadn't made so many mistakes, even if he hadn't broken his vows. Broken them and repented, and then tainted his own repentance by breaking them _again_ ; he hadn't lied to Maria Walters, when he said he was losing himself. He doesn't feel worthy of these gifts anymore, these visions that he was so certain were given to him by the hand of God. Maybe Marcus is right, maybe he shouldn't be so eager for them—not for the reasons Marcus gave, but because he no longer deserves to receive them. Maybe he should turn away, and refuse.

But he remembers the way Marcus spoke of God's touch, of feeling God reach through him at the lake to save Casey, and Tomas wants to feel that, too. So when the dream does come, he lets it.

He almost wishes he hadn't, in the beginning. Dreaming of this—of Marcus's hands on him, Marcus's care, Marcus closed up in this increasingly familiar little room and thinking of nothing but Tomas—God, it's like he's dragging Marcus down with him, using the promise of Marcus's future affection to soothe hurts he's caused himself through his own selfish sin.

He looks at the Marcus in the dream, leaning over the other Tomas and talking to him quietly, holding a straw to the other Tomas's lips, supporting the other Tomas's head with a careful steady hand at the back of the other Tomas's neck. He watches the other Tomas's face, his eyes, the way he looks at the Marcus in the dream, and he knows.

And he's already given in to so many profane desires; he's already stained. So it doesn't surprise him at all that when Marcus sets the glass of water aside and moves as if to rise, the other Tomas won't let him go. The other Tomas wraps one of those battered hands around Marcus's arm and pulls him close, kisses his mouth, and Tomas wants to look away but can't. Like a car crash, he thinks grimly, sickened and heartsore, and he's behind the wheel. Because of course he's going to do this. Of course his hopeless lust will continue to get the better of him; of course he will continue to tarnish the soul the Marcus in the dream must have worked so hard to save.

He braces himself for the worst. But—

But the Marcus in the dream isn't angry.

Or at least Tomas doesn't think he is. At first, it's difficult to tell. Marcus goes still against the other Tomas, one hand settled against the other Tomas's chest—because he was about to push Tomas back against the pillows, surely, to tell him yet again to be careful with himself while he heals. But Marcus doesn't push. The fingers of his other hand are still cupped absently at the back of the other Tomas's neck, and he doesn't move them, doesn't let go.

He just stays where he is, and lets the other Tomas kiss him.

And when at last the other Tomas breaks away, eyes still closed, and says hoarsely, "I'm sorry, Marcus. I'm sorry, I won't do it again. I only wanted—" all the Marcus in the dream does is shush him.

"Never mind," Marcus adds, quiet. "It's all right. Don't worry, Tomas. It's all right," and he helps the other Tomas settle back against the pillows, rubs a soothing thumb along the line of the other Tomas's jaw. "Hush, now; it's all right."

It sounds true, Tomas thinks, helpless, hopeful. It sounds true.

He wakes still clinging to the last of the sick heaviness in his chest, because—because he wants it, he deserves it; he's done so many things wrong. How can he ever make amends? How can he hope to be forgiven?

But in the stillness of the night, it's not a litany of his own sins but the memory of Marcus's voice that fills his head. _It's all right. Don't worry, Tomas._ And instead of guilt, shame, grim familiar despair, all Tomas feels then is peace.

 

 

The third time, he's ready for it. He's glad when it comes—he's grateful.

They've begun to settle into something of a routine, he and Marcus, driving around in this pickup truck and stopping wherever they're needed. It's hard but it's—it's _good_ , it works; _they_ work. Which isn't to say they're unstoppable. Sometimes they struggle. Sometimes they fail. Sometimes the tide of darkness they've pitted themselves against feels unending. But there are good days, too: days when everyone lives, when the light shines through after all, and Tomas and Marcus drive away together and eat cheap greasy food by the side of the road and can't stop grinning at each other.

And it's at the end of one of those days, the sky darkening and Marcus driving, that Tomas tips his head against the passenger-side window and closes his eyes, and dreams.

Time passes between the dreams, too. Tomas had noticed that last time, but it's even easier to tell this time, because the other Tomas looks much, much better. There are still traces of bruising, pale green and faint yellow; but even the worst of the wounds has begun to truly close. Which Tomas knows because as he watches, the Marcus in the dream peels a square of gauze carefully loose and begins to snip through what's left of a set of stitches underneath, one at a time, pulling each piece of thread free with a quick tug.

He looks up after one makes the other Tomas wince, and the other Tomas pulls a face. "It feels strange, that's all. I'm fine."

"Yes, well, you didn't think you needed stitches in the first place," Marcus says, mild, "so you'll forgive me if I'm disinclined to take your word for it."

The other Tomas smiles, and Marcus shakes his head and turns back to the stitches—but the other Tomas doesn't look away from him, and something crosses the other Tomas's face that makes Tomas swallow hard.

"Marcus," the other Tomas says softly.

"Hm?"

"Marcus—I _am_ sorry."

Marcus's hands slow over the other Tomas's chest. "What for?" he says, quick, but it sounds forced to Tomas—and to the other Tomas, too, judging by the way he grimaces.

"You know what for."

Marcus still hasn't looked up. "I told you already, you needn't—"

The other Tomas's mouth pinches, and oh, dear, Tomas thinks, he's not going to let this go. "Marcus," he begins, but Marcus must have realized exactly what Tomas has, because the other Tomas doesn't get any further before Marcus has settled a hand over his mouth.

"You needn't," Marcus says again, quiet, eyes locked with the other Tomas; and the other Tomas stares at him, brow furrowed, searching, for a long moment before Marcus abruptly looks away. "If anything," Marcus adds, more quietly still, "of the two of us, I'm the one who owes an apology, and you're the one who's owed."

The other Tomas makes a muffled, curious sort of sound against Marcus's palm.

"Don't interrupt," Marcus says warningly. "Promise me."

The other Tomas nods, and Marcus lifts his hand from Tomas's mouth and then rubs his own face with it, sighing, turned half away.

"You, that, it's—it's what I was frightened of, before," he admits, to the bedspread and perhaps his own knees more than to the other Tomas. "I was frightened, and I ran. I let that fear guide my steps because I thought—better that than let myself ruin you," and the other Tomas's eyebrows leap, his lips parting before he remembers his promise and bites them to keep from speaking. "But instead God just brought me back to you," Marcus continues, still looking away. "I heard His voice again because of you, and it was your name He said to me. You make me believe in the love of God, Tomas, in mercy and in beauty, in salvation—"

Marcus stops, then, biting at his own mouth, shaking his head; and Tomas has stepped forward, reached mindlessly for him, before remembering that this is a dream.

But the other Tomas doesn't face the same obstacle. The other Tomas reaches, too, and his hands can touch Marcus: he catches Marcus by the shoulder, and then the chin when Marcus's startled face turns toward him, and repeats what might not have been a mistake after all, leaning in to kiss Marcus again.

Again, and again. And this time Marcus doesn't hold still. Marcus shivers, and wraps his hands around the other Tomas's wrists, and kisses back. Slow, yes, and tentative; and so sweet it makes Tomas's chest ache.

"Tomas. Tomas?"

Tomas blinks himself awake against the window of the truck. It's dark, much darker than it was, and—and they've stopped moving. He blinks again and twists to look over at Marcus, and—

Strange, but perfect, he decides, to see Marcus's face illuminated by the faltering neon of a 7-11 sign and find it revelatory; to look across the cab of this cramped old pickup truck and feel himself suffused not with lust or shame but with _love_ , warm and sure and unmistakable.

He's felt this before, with Marcus. He's felt it and looked away, the itch of something that should have been guilt and wasn't creeping over his skin, thinking of that second dream—of his mouth against Marcus's, Marcus frozen beneath it; of how badly he wanted to do it and to have Marcus absolve him, to hear Marcus say _It's all right, Tomas_ somewhere other than inside his own head. But this time—

This time it fills him up, and he thinks _You make me believe in the love of God_ , and it's not that he's remembering Marcus saying it; he's looking at Marcus and thinking it himself, and it's the truth.

"—only this tank's nearly done for," Marcus is saying slowly, staring back at Tomas with what Tomas realizes belatedly is a quizzical raised eyebrow, "and I thought you might want to stretch your legs."

"Yes," Tomas says. "Yes, of course. Thank you."

Marcus stares at him a little longer, and then shakes his head; but Tomas sees his mouth slant, the barest little smile sneaking into place, before he turns away and cracks his door open. "Right," he murmurs, and then he's up, out of the driver's seat, and reaching back in behind himself to pop the lever that opens the cover for the gas tank.

Tomas gets out, too, and the cool night air against his face, the starry sky above him, the cracked pavement beneath him: all of it feels like a gift. It's suddenly inexpressibly beautiful, that he should be here and that this moment is happening to him, that he's experiencing such loveliness. He doesn't quite mean to round the truck and cross the distance between himself and Marcus, to draw Marcus into a hug over the gas pump nozzle that Marcus has just slid into the side of the truck, but—he does.

"Uh, Tomas—"

"Marcus," Tomas agrees, into the collar of Marcus's jacket, and he feels the bewildered half-laugh Marcus huffs against the side of his throat. He draws back just a little, just enough to smile at Marcus and clasp the nape of his neck. "Today was a good day."

And that's enough to make Marcus's face soften, to replace that puzzlement with warmth. "Yeah," Marcus allows, low and glad, and squeezes Tomas's shoulder; and in that moment, Tomas can't think of a single place he would rather be.

 

 

The next time, he isn't expecting it at all. He isn't expecting it, and when it comes, it's a comfort, unlooked-for and unanticipated but no less welcome.

 _I'm unworthy_ , Marcus says to him, and _compromised_ , _mortal sin_. And then, confessional, _I wasn't_ , and Tomas scrabbles for the words to argue the point and comes up short.

 _Not forever_ , he insists, and Marcus agrees but won't look at him, and Tomas is left standing in an empty room, icy dread pooling in his chest. No, no, no—this isn't right. This isn't how it's supposed to be. He must have done something wrong, made a mistake. It's been so long since he's had one of the dreams, and maybe this is why: maybe he lost himself that future, days or even weeks ago. Maybe he stepped off the path that would have taken him there, without even knowing it.

But then—

He isn't even asleep. It's as if it's too urgent, too important; as if the dream cannot bear to wait for nightfall. One moment he's in the room Marcus has left behind, the sound of the door closing still filling his ears, and the next he's somewhere else.

Another room: not empty, and the breath Tomas draws is ragged in his chest, his gaze already searching for—yes, Marcus, there he is, seated on the edge of the bed, shoulders bowed, head tilted, all the familiar lines of him, and Tomas could look at him forever.

And of course the other Tomas is there, too. Almost healed, Tomas thinks, except the other Tomas sits forward a little and flinches, and rubs his face.

"You go," he says.

"Tomas—"

"You go. They need you. They need an exorcist—"

"Mouse can handle it," Marcus says, steady. "It's all right. I'm not going anywhere."

This doesn't please the other Tomas, though Tomas can't imagine why; he'd have given anything to hear Marcus say that to him—

Except he will. Surely he will. That's what this dream, this vision, must mean. Tomas had been right after all: it won't be forever. It _won't_.

"You shouldn't be stuck here looking after me like this," the other Tomas is saying, shaking his head. "I'm fine, Marcus. Go."

"No," Marcus says softly, and takes the other Tomas's face in his hands. "No. I'm not leaving you again."

The other Tomas's face twists; but Marcus doesn't let go, doesn't move away—he smooths his thumbs along the corners of the other Tomas's mouth, his cheeks, the corners of his eyes.

"I tried it once," Marcus adds, low and a little wry, "and look how that turned out. Can't send you off on your own for five minutes at a time, hardly."

"That wasn't your fault," the other Tomas argues, but it's not exactly a heartfelt protest; he's already reached up to settle his hands over the backs of Marcus's, and then Marcus leans in to kiss the other Tomas gently—

—and Tomas sways and catches himself against the door Marcus just left him by, sucking in a harsh unsteady breath, and God, how long has it been? Five minutes? Ten?

He fumbles for the doorknob, hurries out, and the light hasn't changed much, it—it can't have been too long. Marcus can't have gone far. And sure enough, there he is, walking away, mist unable to obscure the unmistakable shape of him, bag and hat and all.

Tomas is frozen for a moment, staring after him, and then bursts into motion, running, breathless. Because Marcus is going to leave, he understands that now, but he's also going to come back. And Tomas knows it, but Marcus doesn't.

"Marcus," he gasps out, and Marcus hardly has time to turn before Tomas has stumbled the last few steps, caught him by the shoulder, fingers digging into that familiar jacket. "Marcus—"

"Tomas, you have to understand," Marcus is saying, frustrated and a little pleading, and Tomas shakes his head, covers Marcus's mouth with his hand the way Marcus did—will do—to him.

"I do," he says, before Marcus can push his hand away. "I do understand. You think you have to go, you think you should; you're trying to do the right thing, Marcus, I know that."

Marcus's brows draw together, and he's caught Tomas's arm; but he hasn't shoved Tomas away, and he's—he's looking at Tomas, searching, those wonderfully expressive eyes flicking back and forth across Tomas's face.

"I need you," Tomas adds, very low. "You don't believe it yet, but that's all right. You will," and that, it seems, is at last too much; Marcus presses against Tomas's arm, his wrist, until Tomas's hand comes away from his mouth to let him speak.

"Tomas—"

"I need you," Tomas repeats, "and when it is time you will hear God's voice again, and you will come and save me."

Marcus is staring at him now, eyes wide, wordless—but that's all right, Tomas thinks, satisfied, because that's all that needed saying. He's still clasping Tomas's arm, raised between them, and Tomas draws him in by it, takes Marcus's face in his free hand, and kisses his mouth: quick, intent, firm. A promise.

Marcus's grip falters, and Tomas draws free of it and turns and walks away. He doesn't look back, because he doesn't need to; he knows, as surely as he knows his own name, that it won't be the last time. This is only the beginning.

 

 

(And then, at last, it's not a dream at all.

He comes back to himself aching, bleeding in at least a dozen places, strained and trembling and exhausted. For a moment he lies there alone, unable to do more than breathe, and thinks: perhaps this is how he dies.

But someone is there with him after all—touching him, cradling him close with warm strong hands and saying, "Tomas? Tomas—"

Of course, Tomas thinks, and if his swollen face would let him, he would smile.

"Marcus," he manages, and listens to that familiar ragged laugh, feels Marcus draw him closer still.

A spill of words—but Tomas has heard them already, so he doesn't need to listen to them now. He lets them roll past him, taking comfort simply in the sound of Marcus's voice, and—and Marcus is about to leave, he remembers. He manages to lift one shaking hand to clutch at Marcus's sleeve, but ah, of course, he's too late: Marcus untangles himself and moves away, is gone, and Tomas lies there and bears it and reminds himself it won't last.

Because it doesn't. In moments, Marcus is back with the water, just as Tomas knew he would be, and the cool damp cloth against Tomas's skin, the knowledge that it is Marcus holding it, is like heaven.

Marcus's voice drops low, concerned. "I'm fine," Tomas tries to tell him, and oh, Marcus isn't going to believe him, but—how could it be otherwise? He fumbles for Marcus, barely able to see where he's reaching through his aching, streaming eyes, because Marcus should understand this: "I'm fine," he says again, and then, because Marcus seems to need the explanation, "You came for me."

Silence.

"Yes," Marcus whispers at last, and Tomas can feel the truth of it, the solid undeniable reality of Marcus's chest against his hand; Marcus's voice in his ears, Marcus's mouth against his brow. God, has he ever in his life felt such joy? He wants to laugh, but it comes out nothing more than a sigh, quiet and contented. Because he needed Marcus, and Marcus came for him, and everything is beautiful: a dream come true.)

 

 


End file.
